


Hello, Dean

by jjlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:20:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3838612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjlove/pseuds/jjlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Slowly recuperates after going on a Mark of Cain rampage</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Dean

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw a picture that put me in so much pain so I decided to share the pain
> 
> Sorry

He blinked. He could feel it all fade away. All of the rage, violence, and lust was slowly clearing out of his blood stream just like the black haze from his eyes.

He blinked again. Finally, he could see the scene that he made. Hear the labored breathing of both himself and his friend. Feel the hand that clutched the lapels of his leather jacket. He smelt the sweat, the blood. And all too suddenly he felt the panic, the fear, the pain.

Eye lids fluttered over fading blue eyes. The movement took noticeable effort. Cas’s lips turned upwards the way they did when he said his “h’s,” when he became flustered, and when he talked to Dean.

“Hello, Dean,” it came out rougher, scratchier than normal and was followed by a cough.

His hands had already moved to hold his friend by the shoulders, one arm wrapping around to hold him. The angel’s legs gave way beneath the two men. Dean still held on, slowly guiding them to the dusty floor. Tears welled in his eyes.

“Cas,” he croaked, “Cas, no,” Dean repeated, “no, please.”

They were on the floor now, Dean leaning over the fallen angel that would never be his fallen angel.

Cas’s foot twitched, a hand tried—and failed—to reach and stroke over the freckles of Dean’s face. Those were the freckles that had helped to recreate and yet still recounted every time he glanced at the man.

“This is,” Cas breathed, “nostalgic.”

Their first corporal meeting replayed behind Dean’s eyes. Sitting in anticipation. Waiting for the thing that had pulled him from Hell. He remembered the bangs and clangs on the barn’s steel roofing and walls. The locked and barred doors swinging open and Cas in all of his power waltzing in, unfazed by the bullets and all of their protection runes and sigils. In his panic induced rage he plunged Ruby’s knife into the stranger’s chest. He just smiled an inhuman smile and pulled it out.

Castiel was right. It was nostalgic. Most everything was the same. They were in a barn, Dean had been waiting for the angel, and there was a blade protruding from Castiel’s chest. However, Dean’s rage hadn’t been induced by fear but the Mark of Cain, the blade was not Ruby’s knife but the ancient First Blade, and Cas hadn’t—couldn’t—pull the blade out.

Cas’s breath hitched and stuttered. It was becoming slower. Dean reached for the blade but stopped, if he pulled it out Cas would bleed to death. He focused back on his friends face.

“Cas, I’m—“ Dean’s voice wasn’t steady, it wavered like never before, “I’m so sorry, Cas.”  


There was a glimmer of light that passed over the blue eyes and slowly they became unfocused and his smile became slack. All too quickly, Dean’s heart shattered.

For a moment Dean didn’t comprehend the silence, the stillness of his friend. He called out, shook the body. He needed to break the silence, the stillness.

His efforts didn’t rejuvenate the angel.

Castiel’s face had paled, his eyes dulled. Dean didn’t know how long he stared at him. Like he had done so many times before. Like he wanted to do so much more. Eventually, he reached up and pushed a lock of the dark, disheveled, always bed-head hair off of Cas’s face. And only in this moment would Dean admit that he had very much stroked the face of his best friend, of the man that had died five—now six—times, for Dean, of the man he loved.

It was then that Dean remembered one more nostalgic parallel to the night they had first met. Dean didn’t believe he deserved to be saved and he still didn’t.  
Letting out a raw choked cry, Dean crumpled over Cas’s body, clinging to the tan, bloodstained overcoat, and wept. It was in that position that Sam found his brother later that night.

Sam tried—and failed—to coax his brother away from the body and back to the bunker. Much later Dean left, stumbling vacantly out of the barn and into the Impala.

Three weeks later and the Mark of Cain still hadn’t acted up, neither had Dean. Still, Sam kept him off hunts. They didn’t talk about what happened—how Dean reacted when he came through to see Cas dead in his arms. Sam didn’t bring it up save for two instances, both of which Dean blew him off. Not in his usual way of “I’m fine, Sammy, really” but in much more subdued ways of deep sighs and attempts at forced smiles that never actually made it to Dean’s face.

He also didn’t bring up what he heard late in the night: the screams, the pants, the sobs, and especially not the calls for Castiel. Sam thought it would be better not to bring these up. After all, his brother spent so much energy either consciously or unconsciously suppressing these feelings when Cas was alive that it would only pain him to realize—if he hadn’t already—in what way he truly cared for the angel.

**Author's Note:**

> So there will be more chapters


End file.
